“We should go straight there. Sovereigns willing, we’ll get there before the sun is completely down.”
They moved briskly through the streets of Throneport. Once, a hundred years earlier, it would have been a bustling center of open-handed commerce. In the post-war times, even with the arrival of a new ship, the town seemed suspicious, furtive. The people were still there, but in the absence of a uniting king most of those residing in Throneport worked for personal interests, be those the goals of their home nation or some other affiliation. It gave the town a corrupt feeling, like a city of thieves and assassins.
The pair wound their way toward the castle, panting with exertion as they ascended the steep streets. As they passed one of the lower baileys of the castle-a fortified outbuilding connected to the main castle by a high, arcing bridge that soared high overhead-a soldier hailed them from a shadowed portcullis.
“Pardon me, good folks,” he said, “but that street is the road to the castle gate.”
“Yes,” panted Cimozjen, “we know. How much farther is it to the castle?”
“It’s still a bit of a climb,” he said, “and I fear you’ll find your effort wasted. They seal the gate at dusk.”
“What?” said Minrah. “Why would they do that?”
“It’s been the tradition since the start of the Last War. While there is a threat to Thronehold, the Thronewardens seal the castle during the hours of darkness. And so long as there is no king, there is, by definition, a threat.”
“But it’s the Thronewardens we want to see,” said Minrah.
“For what purpose?”
“We were hoping they’d be able to admit us to the headquarters of the Sentinel Marshals,” said Cimozjen. “We have some information we believe they’d be interested in.”
“Is that so?” asked the soldier. He stepped out from the portcullis, and pulled off his helmet. Silvery hair spilled out onto his shoulders, framing an aged, kindly face. His slanting eyes and thin features showed him to be of mixed human and elven heritage. His weathered face bore wrinkles of care and cast a sad appearance over him despite his strong, piercing eyes. “It just so happens I’ve been a guard here since shortly after the start of the Last War. I know the Sentinel Marshals.” He extended a hand. “My name is Theyedir Deneith. Tell me what you have for them, and if the information is worthy, I’ll show you to them, be the castle sealed or not.”
It was the last watch before dawn, but the sailor standing watch was far from sleepy.
Having a squad of thirty armed and armored soldiers suddenly appear on the dock carrying lanterns aimed at you tends to have a rousing effect.
“No one’s allowed aboard from midnight until first light,” the sailor called out, “Commander’s orders.”
Focused as he was upon the armed throng, he neglected to notice the soft pad of approaching footsteps behind him. He did feel a hard blow strike the back of his head, though only briefly, before he slumped to the deck.
Cimozjen lowered the gangplank and let the Sentinel Marshals aboard. Several of them secured the ladders and the corridors leading to the cabins, the rest Cimozjen and Minrah led directly to the cargo hold.
The Marshals had a wizard with them, who ensorcelled the door such that it unlocked and opened of its own accord. “Now’s your chance, Karrn,” he said to Cimozjen. “Show us we were right to trust you on this.”
“You don’t believe him?” asked Minrah.
The wizard smiled, lopsided but genuine. “Personally, I put more stake in Theyedir’s good feelings about you than in the story you two told. Daft as that old tinhorn is, he seems to have a good instinct about these things.”
Cimozjen led the way in, whispering a prayer, Minrah huddled close behind him. He kissed his amulet, and divine light shone forth in the room. “The large crates are in the back,” he said, gesturing as he worked his way through the cargo, “but I have no idea what might be in them. The beast was held in that, the largest of the crates. Down here’s the only evidence I have of its existence.” He stopped in the center of the cargo area, kneeled, and pulled up the trap door to the ballast hatch. Then he lay on the deck and lowered his head and shoulders into the hatch. After a moment’s grunting and reaching in the cramped area, he pulled up two items.
“This is my father’s dagger, given to me, and to him by his father before him. It bears the Hellekanus family crest on the hilt. And here,” he added, proffering a blue-gray piece of hairy flesh the size of a shovel’s blade, “is the ear of the creature that I killed with it. These are testimony to the truth of my tale, which I swear upon my honor, my bones, and my sovereign patron of arms.”
He tossed the ear to the nearest soldier, then rolled to a sitting position on the side of the trapdoor hatch and twirled the dagger. “I missed you, old friend,” he said, then lifted the rear of his tunic and slid the blade back into its place.
Minrah walked over and put a reassuring hand on the back of Cimozjen’s neck.
Behind them, the sergeant of the Sentinel Marshals inspected the ear. “Look here,” he said. “It’s been tattooed. ‘17.’ That’s very odd. What do you think?” He handed it to the wizard.
“Very odd indeed,” said the wizard. “I’d think it a gnoll, were it not so abyssally large. I’d pay a high price for the chance to inspect this creature, living or dead. Perhaps we should find out if there are any others.”
The sergeant waved a hand. “Check the other crates, but use caution.”
The Sentinel Marshals started moving among the crates, looking.
“What’s that smell?” said one, sniffing. “Smells like … cockroaches.” He peered into the slats of a crate. A squeaking, chittering noise carried through the bay. “Oh, good gods! Bring that light here, will you?”
Cimozjen moved over to the soldier, his sacred amulet glowing by Dol Arrah’s pleasure. As he drew closer to the soldier, the man drew away from the crate, for a large, insectile leg the length of a javelin extended between a pair of slats and rested its clawed appendage on a nearby box.
“Sergeant,” called the soldier, “we’ve got ’em, we do. This makes dockside rats look like fleas!”
“I–I-I’m going to go back upstairs and wait on the dock until this is all over,” said Minrah, a tremble in her voice. She turned and exited the cargo bay at not quite a run.
“Sergeant,” called another Marshal, “you’ll want to see this.”
The sergeant walked over to the Marshal. Cimozjen moved to join him. The sergeant stood near a smaller crate, one that was marginally larger than an upright coffin, watching as the Sentinel Marshal worked at the locked hasp with a crowbar. The sergeant held one hand elegantly behind his back, clutching a long, thin rapier concealed behind him.
“So you see what I spoke of, sergeant,” said Cimozjen. “This is a ship of nightmares. Twisted daelkyr creatures, monstrous insects, smuggling these must break a number of laws, does it not?”
The latch flew open with a loud snap, sending splinters flying through the air. The soldier pulled the door open, stepping well away.
“Bugs, perhaps,” said the sergeant. “But this, this is against all the laws of Galifar-and the Treaty of Thronehold besides.” He turned his head. “Seal the ship. Arrest all the crew. Hold all the passengers for interrogation.”
Then he appraised the warforged that tentatively emerged from the crate, a battle-axe in its hands, head turning to look at each of them in turn.
“I do not understand,” he said. The open area was abustle with activity. People opened crates, counted coin, and hauled material hither and yon. Yet the crowd was not all staring at him, no one was yelling, nor was anyone trying to kill him, at least no one that he could determine.
“I already told you, ’forged,” said the man without looking up. He was seated behind a table with a large sheet of parchment emblazoned with intricate filigreed sigils. “Slavery is illegal. We’ve seized what assets we can, and here’s your share.” He shoved a canvas bag across the table to the warforged.